The Other Door
by BethTX
Summary: Following the events of WAM and FJ, Wilson is abandoned and Chase is there to pick up the pieces. WC.
1. Chapter 1

1_I'm normally a strict House/Wilson shipper, but Wac-a-Mole and Finding Judas damn near traumatized me. With their relationship torn apart on the show I'm finding it difficult to write H/W right now. I don't much like the direction the show has gone, so I'll just cross my fingers and hope the writers don't drag this out much longer. In the meantime..._

"**When one door of happiness closes, another opens..."**

**-Helen Keller**

Just like that, it was over.

House got up and walked out of Wilson's office. No apology, but he hadn't really expected one. What he had expected was something, some sign however small that House had internalized Wilson's sharp words. That he'd heard. That he gave a shit about what he'd done to his best friend. That he gave a shit about the man who'd just given up his medical practice to keep him out of prison.

Instead, House just walked out.

For a long time, Wilson sat numbly, staring at the door. Suddenly, he stood and swept the files from his desk with one red-hot motion. Papers exploded from the files and cascaded through the air, landingover couch, chairs, and floor mingling in a hopeless tangle

"Fuck!" he snarled, slamming his fists down on the desktop, taking grim pleasure in the distraction provided by the momentary pain.The bitter rage was short-lived; it dissipated as swiftly as it had come, leaving a wave of depression in its wake.Drained, he sank down into his chair and covered his face with his hands.

_I had two things going for me: this job and this stupid, screwed-up friendship. Both are gone now. Neither mattered enough to him. _I _didn't matter enough to him. Why didn't I learn my lesson last time?_ _How fucking stupid am I? _

"Dr. Wilson?"

Wilson raised his head at the hesitant voice. Chase was standing half-in and half-out of the door, peering silently at the disaster Wilson had made of his office.

"Are you okay?"

Wilson nodded tiredly, too weary to feel much more than a slight flare of embarrassment for his outburst. "I'm good." He gathered himself and looked up at the young intensivist. "What can I do for you?"

Chase entered slowly and sat in the chair House had vacated. "Actually, I heard that you and Cameron have a difference of opinion and I thought I'd volunteer instead."

Wilson shook his head. "I appreciate that, Chase, but I've decided to shut down my practice until this all works out." He gave in to a moment of self-pity. "If this all works out."

Chase frowned. "Don't do that," he said quietly. "Your patients need you. They trust you."

Wilson sighed and massaged the back of his neck. "I know, but I can't be their doctor, not with another doctor dogging my steps, making my patients doubt me. Better to take a vacation or something until this thing blows over."

"Then let me just write your prescriptions. I trust you."

Tears stung Wilson's eyes and he looked down to hide them. Trust was the root issue, wasn't it? Wilson had trusted House for all these years, in spite of all the minor betrayals. Trust was gone now, taking with it twelve years of a friendship Wilson himself had trusted always to be there. In allowing himself to be drawn more and more into House's downward spiral, Wilson had lost trust in himself. At this point, there was nothing Wilson needed to hear more than someone's expression of trust in him.

He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. "Cameron was nervous because she was afraid Tritter will audit her prescriptions. Besides, what about House? He won't like it if his duckling is working with me when he's trying to screw with me."

Chase met Wilson's eyes. "Bugger Tritter and bugger House for all that," he said clearly. He looked around at the mess of papers. "Let's start by sorting this out. Figure out who we're prescribing for."

Wilson watched as Chase began picking up and organizing the patient files from the floor and furniture, bringing order to chaos, working with the quiet patience that Wilson had come to associate with Chase.

"Why?" he asked.

Chase looked up. "Why what?"

"You're always the one so afraid of losing his job. You always do the safe thing. You never stand up when you don't have to. Why now?"

Chase shrugged. "Picking my fights, I suppose. House isn't worth it. You are." He colored and quickly dropped his eyes. He handed a completed file across the desk. "Check and make sure I have everything. Looks like adriamycin for Bill Johnson's pancreatic cancer?"

Wilson leafed through the file, covering Chase's discomfort. "Yeah. Looks complete."

"Nasty stuff, adriamycin," Chase commented.

"Yeah, it's a last-resort drug, in my opinion, but Bill's cancer isn't responding well to vinblastine, so..." He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. He was going to lose Bill Johnson before six months had passed, no matter what meds he was on. At this point, the hope was simply to manage the metastasis and keep the man fairly comfortable. "I know you have a patient, so why don't you let me clean up the mess I made and I can give you a list of patients and meds later?"

Chase nodded, but made no move to leave. He studied Wilson for a moment, hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision. "Want to talk?" he asked finally.

Wilson looked up, surprised. He and Chase had always been on pleasant enough terms, but of all of House's ducklings, Wilson had always liked Chase least. Part of it was the fact of Chase's betrayal during Vogler's reign, but part was also less tangible, an inability to read the blond. No one seemed to know much about him and that seemed to be the way Chase wanted it. In Wilson's experience, people who kept that much to themselves were usually arrogant, untrustworthy, or both. Even House-

But it hurt to think about House. Better to pick at that wound later, when he could let his defenses down.

"I probably do need to talk, but I wouldn't know where to start right now. I appreciate the offer, though."

Chase nodded once and got up. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry about what happened." He slipped through the door as quietly as he had entered.

_Right words. Wrong speaker._

Wilson sank to his knees and picked up papers at random as depression washed over him again.


	2. Chapter 2

1The bus was late and the bench was freezing cold. Wilson sat only because he was too exhausted to stand until the Princeton Public Transport decided to show up. He could have asked a colleague for a ride, but the whole situation was too awkward. The thought of dodging politely-phrased questions or, worse, having to listen to someone's well-meaning rants about House all the way back to his hotel was too much. He supposed the latest chapter of this disaster was already running rampant among the hospital gossip-mongers, but he would deal with the pitying stares and the I-told-you-so crowd tomorrow. Tonight, he could handle nothing more than a hot meal and bed.

Even that brought no comfort. The hotel bed wasn't Wilson's bed any more than the hotel was his home. Until today, he'd always been welcome in House's home, in his bed. Until today, that was where he'd thought he belonged. He ran there during fights with his wives, between marriages, when he was too drunk, exhausted, or sick to drive home. Even on those temperamental nights when House decided he didn't want a bed partner, Wilson felt comfortable crashing on the couch, drifting to sleep to the familiar sound of restless tossing and deep breathing coming from the bedroom.

Wilson heard the motorcycle engine even before he saw the headlights. Grating and designed to attract attention, like everything else House did.

The cycle slowed and came to a stop. House looked blankly at him and Wilson stared back.

_Here it comes, _he thought tiredly. _He'll tell me to hop on and consider this whole thing over. No acknowledgment, no apology_, _just expect me to sweep it under the rug like always. The most I'll get is the offer of dinner and a beer. Sorry, House. This time I'm not sure I'm ready to forgive you._

House locked eyes for a moment longer and then drove away without a word.

Wilson blinked rapidly, almost not comprehending.

_He left me. The son of a bitch is the reason for me sitting here and he fucking left me._

Pain and horrible, impotent anger flooded through him. House was a rude, selfish asshole, and he wasn't above taking potshots at Wilson's patients, his inability to hold a marriage together, or his personal appearance, but he'd always been there for him. After a fashion. This time he'd walked away. He'd abandoned the man who'd been there through everything. The relationship that had outlasted Stacy, three farcical marriages, House's infarction and resulting addiction was over.

Alone on the icy bench, Wilson let out a harsh, barking sound that was more sob than laugh and leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He was still resting that five minutes later when the car pulled up. He opened his eyes and looked up.

"Can I give you a ride somewhere?" Chase asked from the driver's side of the Jeep.

Wilson hesitated, on the verge of refusal, and then sighed. In light of what had just happened, the importance of avoiding co-workers had faded.

"That'd be great, if it's not a bother."

Chase offered a reassuring smile. "No bother."

Wilson pried his numbed body off the bench and sank into the blessed warmth of the Jeep. "I'm staying at the downtown Radisson." He waited for the tiresome why-not-get-an-apartment question, but Chase merely nodded.

He considered the question. He needed one and he couldn't go on living in a hotel, but what had House said the last time he'd gone crawling back, in the debris of his third marriage? _As long as you're here it's just a fight. _Right on. He hadn't even bothered to unpack beyond the clothes he was planning to wear the next day. As long as he was living out of a suitcase in a hotel room, it was just a fight. He'd be going back to House's apartment, House's bed, anytime now. It was all temporary.

_Keep telling yourself that, Jimmy, _he thought tiredly. _One day you might believe it._

He'd argued, even fought, with his brilliant, frustrating, contentious friend more times over the years than it payed to count. A few days of stalking around each other like hissing cats, and it had always ended in food, beer, and renewed companionship. Usually, House would kick open his office door and announce something like, "I rented Night of the Living Dead. Bring Chinese if you're coming." This time, the rift was deeper and much more serious than could be healed with kung pao chicken and a six pack of Heineken.

Yet, House had said he didn't want their friendship to break. It hadn't been a simple matter of securing his drug connection, Wilson was sure of that. House had met his eyes and then dropped his gaze, as he always did when the conversation became personal. He cared. He-

_Make up your damn mind! Five minutes ago you were sure it was over, but now there's a chance? _

But it was too late and he felt far too low to follow that line of thought. Suddenly, the night stretched endlessly before him. Leftovers warmed up in the microwave. A few hours of inane sitcoms followed by a few chapters of the formulaic horror novel someone had left in the oncology lounge. Tossing and turning in a bed that was too big and too cold. He couldn't go back to that right away. Not now.

"Hey," he said on impulse, "can I buy you dinner? Just to thank you for your help?"

Chase looked over, surprised. "Sure, in fact, that would be great. I wasn't looking forward to my choice of bologna sandwich or heated-up Spaghettios."

Wilson smiled. "Almost as exciting as my leftover cafeteria mac and cheese." His smile faded. _If House was still eating with me, there wouldn't be leftovers. _"Is Bennigan's okay with you?"

"Whatever, as long as I can avoid Chef Boyardee. One more night on my table and I'm going to make that fat bastard pay rent."

The unexpected humor from Chase surprised a laugh out of him. This is what he needed. A nice, friendly dinner with a co-worker, an hour or so where he didn't think about the ruin of the most important relationship of his life.

Bennigan's was less crowded than usual, so they got a table right away. As they looked over the menu, Wilson happened to glance over at the next table. It was a poignantly familiar scene. Two men, one blond and one brunet, were sitting on opposite ends of the table. Wilson watched as the blond looked up from his own meal, narrowed his eyes sneakily, and suddenly reached across the table and jabbed his fork toward the brunet's plate. The brunet scowled and pulled his plate safely out of harm's way.

_Resistance is futile, _Wilson thought sadly. _You might as well just let him have it, buddy. If you don't he'll just pout and make the rest of the night miserable for you._

"You miss him, don't you?"

Wilson looked back to see Chase regarding him with sympathy in his pale blue eyes. He didn't have enough energy left to pretend he didn't know who Chase was talking about.

"Yeah," he sighed. "God knows why. The son of a bitch really screwed me this time." He laughed shortly. "You'd think I'd be used to it by now, wouldn't you?"

Chase pursed his lips thoughtfully. "There are some things you can't get used to. Betrayal by a loved one is one of them."

"Then why do I feel guilty?"

"Because you're his keeper, or at least that's how you've cast yourself. You've been doing it so long that you define yourself by him to some extent. With him at a distance, part of you is floating."

Wilson considered this. It was nothing he hadn't thought before, but Chase had phrased it just right. _At a distance _sounded so much better than _gone forever. _It sounded temporary, like there might be some hope of patching things up.

_Oh, but do you really want to? _a traitorous voice inside him whispered. _Do you want t_o _go back to sleeping with a man who lied to you, stole from you, implicated you in a crime, and doesn't even have the heart to _act_ sorry? _

"I don't know." Wilson answered both Chase's comment and his own question. "We've been together for almost twelve years now. It's just-it's not something I just want to let go. Does that make any sense?"

Chase nodded, but said nothing, waiting patiently.

Wilson took a deep breath. "You know we're lovers, right?" He watched his companion for any signs of disapproval, but Chase only shrugged.

"I figured, but it was none of my business."

"Yeah, well, on and off for twelve years, through marriages and dating andhis surgery and all the-the _crap_ life threw at us. It wasn't perfect. I mean, no one's ever going to write sonnets about the love of two middle-aged guys who argue over the remote and punch each other for hogging the covers in bed." He gave another barking laugh.

"But you were there for each other, for all that."

"Yeah," Wilson replied softly. "We were. Now, I feel like-God, this is horrible to say- I feel like he's dead. Or might as well be for all the space between us. "

Chase cocked his head and stared for a moment with a look Wilson couldn't interpret. He seemed about to say something when their meals arrived, effectively ending the conversation for the moment. They ate in companionable silence, broken only to make the lightest of dinner conversation or comment about the food.

Wilson waited until they were pulling up to his hotel before saying, "Thanks for the ride and for listening. I really didn't mean to dump all that on you."

Chase smiled slightly. "You needed to talk and I don't mind listening. It stays between us, by the way."

Wilson found himself smiling back, in spite of the misery that still threatened to claim him. "I know. Thanks." And he did. Chase was the most secretive person Wilson had ever met. Right now, he needed someone like that. He got out and started to close the door when Chase's voice stopped him.

"When you were talking tonight," he said softly, "you sometimes used the past tense and sometimes the present. Is it over between you and House?"

Surprised at the question from the blue, Wilson shook his head. "I don't know." He looked at the other man for clarification, but Chase had closed himself off again.

"You know," the blond said casually, "I pass by here on my way to work. It wouldn't be a problem to pick you up on my way."

"If you don't mind...?"

"Not at all. Say, 7:15?"

"Great. Thanks again, Chase." Transportation problem solved was a load off his mind. He hadn't been looking forward to the long bus rides or expensive cab rides. "It shouldn't be for long. I mean, Tritter can't keep my car hostage forever."

"Whatever. I don't mind." He gave Wilson that inscrutable look again. "You can call me Rob. If you want."

Wilson nodded. "Make it Jimmy, then. I sometimes forget I have a first name."

Chase laughed. "See you tomorrow."

Wilson gave a final wave and walked off toward the lobby and his empty room. If the thought of Chase's warm blue eyes crossed his mind at all, it was a fleeting thought and pushed quickly from conscious thought.


	3. Chapter 3

1"Ready to go?"

Wilson looked up from the article he'd been half-heartedly authoring for Oncology Monthly. It was a case study in the topic of chronic pain management and not something he felt professionally or emotionally able to deal with at the moment. Exactly how much of the current situation with House was his fault was something that had been preying on him more and more.

"Well, let's see: I'm behind in my charting, I can't get this article off the ground, and my ass is spot-welded to this chair. Yeah, I'm ready." He powered down his computer and gathered his things.

Chase grinned. "I know the feeling," he said as they moved to the elevator. "No case lately, so I've been bounced between ICU and clinic duty."

"Oh, joy. Any interesting cases down there today?"

"Funny you should ask." Chase turned toward him, eyes sparkling with anticipation of a really good story. "An old couple came in today, both of them in their eighties and a little loopy. She has a UTI , so I give her antibiotics and wish her well. No big deal, right? I'm about to walk out when she says-" his voice turned high and cracked "-'Doctor, could this be causing all these infections?' Just then, she reaches in her purse and takes out a dildo."

Wilson dissolved into helpless laughter. "No way!"

Chase leaned closer, lowering his voice slightly. "Yes way, unfortunately. Worse than that, now they want to _tell_ me about their sex life. Frequency, positions, accessories-everything. I'm spared no detail. You know how the elderly are. I couldn't get away. I spent half an hour listening to this."

Wilson wiped tears from his eyes. "God, the mental pictures you must have!" In the week since that first dinner and ride home Wilson found himself looking forward to time spent with the intensivist. He was constantly surprised by how much he liked seeing the glimpses of humor, compassion, and insight that he'd never given Chase credit for.

"And those are images I could've lived the rest of my life without having, believe me!"

"I'll bet you dream-"

Before he could finish his thought a cane pushed its way between them and jabbed the down button.

"Oh, don't let me interrupt," House said. "I know how awkward those new relationship conversations can be. I always find it easier to skip right to the fucking."

Chase stiffened and stopped smiling. He dropped his eyes to the floor and colored. "I'm just giving him a ride, House."

House snorted. "I bet you are, you Tasmanian devil, you." He looked the blond over with lecherous interest. "Question is, Jimmy, are you trading up or down? I'll give you points for the youth and great hair thing, but really! I thought you liked them a little more masculine."

Wilson sighed. He'd gotten through a week without a confrontation with House, but he knew the man was never one to let something go. He'd just hoped that when it came they would be alone. Foolish, really. Now, he held onto his patience. A public scene would give House an arena to humiliate Chase and be more obnoxious in an effort to make their private conflict open to the whole hospital.

"Enough, House," Wilson said quietly, hoping to earn a stalemate until another time. "If you want to talk, let's make it another time and place. I'm exhausted."

"Has my littlest ducky been keeping you up late? Early morning wake-up blowjobs? As I recall, those are your specialty, James. Tell me something: were you fucking him when you were with me, or is this something new?" House was gazing at Wilson stonily, waiting for a reaction.

Any other time, House's needling would have washed over him, to be tucked away for later comment or to be pushed to the back of his psyche along with all the others. But today, weary from the past couple of weeks, his tolerance for House's bullshit finally reached an end.

"Quit the shit, House!" he hissed, mindful of open office doors and passing colleagues. "You want to get a rise from me! You _want_ me to say something nasty to you so you can go around feeling sorry for yourself. That way, you can start telling yourself that this whole thing is my fault and you were just an innocent victim."

"Yeah, and I don't have any reason to feel victimized," House snapped back. "You and the Wicked Bitch of the East lie to me, go behind my back, and decide you know my body better than I do! Should I buy a bumper sticker that says 'Get your laws off my body'? It'd look great on my bike."

"Oh come on! Cuddy is risking Tritter's wrath by prescribing for you and you know it!"

"Two pills every six hours-she's a real angel of fucking mercy, alright."

Chase cleared his throat. "I'll wait for you in the car," he said quietly, moving off toward the stairs. In the heat of his argument with House Wilson had forgotten that the other doctor was there.

"Don't forget that Wilson likes the left side of the bed, Blondie," House shouted after him.

Chase ducked his head and pulled his shoulders in against the attack. What Wilson saw in that wounded stance caused him as much pain as anything House had inflicted on him throughout the years.

"You know what? When you're ready to grow up and talk about this like an adult, call me. Until then, just fucking do me a favor and forget I exist." He pushed the door to the stairs open and went after Chase.

He caught up with Chase in the lobby and the two walked together in silence, reluctant to talk about what had just happened in the presence of prying eyes and ears.

"I'm sorry you had to be involved in that," he said finally as they seated themselves in the Jeep.

Chase shrugged. "It's okay. It's just House being House." He kept his eyes determinedly on the road. The sparkle and good humor were gone, leaving a stony lack of expression that worried Wilson.

"Don't do that, Rob," he said, bothered that Chase seemed unable to defend himself. "Don't dismiss what he said. You have a right to be pissed. I came this close to slugging him myself back there."

"Would it do any good? Me getting pissed, you slugging him?" Chase lifted his hands off the wheel in a generic gesture. "He's in pain, James. That's what this is about, not you and not me."

Wilson stared over at him in disbelief. "How can you sit there defending him?"

"I'm not defending his actions, just his reasons. The man lives every day with pain, but he still manages. His life isn't something I'd choose for myself, but it helps to remember that he didn't choose it, either."

"We all choose," Wilson said tiredly. "He chooses to believe that the pain in his leg is real because it's easier to pop a pill than fix your trainwreck of a life."

"Conversion disorder," Chase said. "I agree that he has it, but I think you've got the order wrong. The physical pain caused the emotional pain, and not the other way."

Wilson was silent for a moment, digesting that. "You think I'm wrong?"

"I think you're too close to the problem," Chase corrected gently. "You miss the old House, the way he was before the surgery. I don't blame you; I've heard you talk about how much fun he was, how athletic he was. But maybe you want the old House back so much that you aren't dealing with the new one."

The oncologist stared through the windshield, stunned and unseeing. Over the years of prescribing for House, he had thought vaguely along those lines, but once again Chase had managed to put Wilson's own feelings into perfect, coherent sense. Over the years, he'd come to dismiss those thoughts, although a deep, seldom-examined part of himself wondered if it had just been easier that way.

_What if he _has_ been in physical pain all these years?_ _What if it has nothing to do with depression or losing Stacy or our weird relationship?_

"I'm sorry. It wasn't my place to say that."

Wilson looked up. "No, it's not that. You-" he swallowed thickly. "-you just gave me some serious considerations. If you're right and I've been judging him wrong all these years, then I have some things about myself that I have to face that aren't so pretty."

"Like what?"

"Like maybe I'm a crappy doctor and a crappier human being." He stared morosely out the window, watching the snow gently cover the streets. It felt like his own depression blanketing his soul.

"That's harsh, don't you think?" Chase took advantage of the red light to look over at him.

"Why? Do you know how many times I've bitched at House for being insensitive to sick people who just need some understanding, then turned around and told him I didn't believe he was hurting?" Wilson laughed harshly. "You can add crappy friend to that list."

Chase was silent for a moment. "Why did you do it?" he asked finally.

"Do what?"

"Harass House about his Vicodin. Cut him off sometimes."

"Because," Wilson thought, fighting to articulate through the doubts that were whispering that he really had no good reasons. "Because he's hurting himself. He takes too many pills, drinks on top of it, and doesn't even care."

"So you're trying to save him from himself."

How many times had he watched House when the older man wasn't looking, watched him take another pill, another drink, race off on that ridiculous cycle in conditions unsuitable for that speed and thought, _When will I get that call? The one that tells me_ _he's finally gone, that it's too late for me to help him, that I didn't do enough. That I _wasn't _enough._

"Are you going to tell me he's not my responsibility?"

Chase took a deep breath. "Of course he is. Everyone we love becomes our responsibility. Nothing we can do about it; it just is. The point is," he paused to wet his lips, "that we can't always know what's best for someone else, but you did what you did from love and not from spite. You may or may not have been right, but you shouldn't beat yourself for trying to do the right thing."

Wilson smiled. "Hey, I'm Jewish. Guilt is what we do."

"And we Catholics perfected it." Chase returned the smile.

Wilson leaned back, feeling some of the burden of the past week lift once again. And once again, it had been Chase who seemed to know exactly what to say to lift it. He had a sudden image of the man as he would have been had he stuck with seminary school: sitting quietly in a pew, nodding and listening quietly until the right time came to speak. Knowing exactly what to say. Leaving the grieved, if not more enlightened, at least less bereaved.

He also remembered all the times he and House had made fun of Chase behind his back.

"_Did you know my little blond Brit was going to be a priest?"_

_Wilson looked away from the Skinimax soft-core porn movie they'd been laughing at. "Chase?"_

"_Uh huh."_

"_The Robert Chase who loves thy neighbor unless that neighbor is fat, a nun, or doesn't have boobs?" He snickered drunkenly. "Can you imagine his parish? Our Lady of the Holy Hair Gel?"_

_House's eyes shone with glee. "The First Church of the Scorned Fat-Ass, no soul over 100 lbs saved."_

Shamed, Wilson realized that neither of them really knew Chase. Even House, who made it his business to know everyone else's. He'd always suspected that House's extra abuse of Chase had been due to his inability to crack him. House loved puzzles, but only ones he could solve.

"Thanks," he said to Chase now. "I've done a lot of complaining and feeling sorry for myself lately. There are a lot of people who wouldn't mind listening to me bitch about House, but you're the only one who didn't chime in and make me feel like an asshole. I appreciate that."

"No problem. Sometimes you just have to vent." Chase pulled the Jeep up to Wilson's hotel. "Look," he said hesitantly, "I've been thinking, why bother spending money on this place? I have an extra bedroom. You're welcome to stay with me. If you want." He fiddled with the heater, avoiding Wilson's eyes.

Wilson hesitated, vaguely troubled. Hadn't there been a few times over the past week where Chase had stood a little too close, or let his gaze linger a little too long? They'd been working closely together, and Wilson enjoyed the feeling of closeness from someone who seemed to return it, but-

But with his feelings about House so jumbled and his relationship with the man in such flux, moving in with Chase might be a bad idea. It would definitely anger House and make a rapprochement that much more difficult, for one thing. For another-

_For another, James, you have no idea what your feelings for Chase are, do you? _

Still, Wilson was a social creature and the hotel room was becoming more unbearable and isolated with each night he spent alone, with no diversions to distract him from thinking about House.

"Sure," he said before he could Hamlet himself into more confusion. "If I won't be in the way."

"Nope. Plenty of room and I'd welcome the company."

For a moment, they locked eyes, warm brown met soft blue and something unspoken passed between them, an energy that caught Wilson by surprise and sent a shiver through him.

"I'll just go up and pack," he said, ignoring every ounce of common sense that screamed that this was a bad idea.


End file.
